“Nobody Eats at Brunch/Wood and Patina”

“Okay, let’s get right into it,” Shorty, a mole hill of a man, standing about five-foot-three, with a rotund belly and thick shoulders, claps enthusiastically. “Purple Tape, or —

“Not this, again,” his younger and really massive stepbrother from some yard in Jamaica, exhaled, with his head lifted to the suede ceiling. “Ras…”

“It’s a serious question, but fuck it. I’ll drop the album analogy.”

“I’d say the purple tape,” a kid squatting at the opened driver’s side door spoke, never moving his attention from his work, meticulously tinting the window. “I mean, it was so damn fly. And yo, you kinda look like gold-tooth Rae,” the multi-task master smirked as he wiped down another window with a soapy solution.

“Ha. I always get that,” Shorty rubbed his face where his beard used to be. “You know the shorties think I’m him, all the time, right?”

“I see CL Smooth though,” American yardie chimes in.

“Your brother is actually right, Shorty; been saying this for years,” I look up from my explore page.

“Nah, that’s you, and you know it.” We all laugh because it’s been a running joke since middle school. I even had the bush taper and a gold-dipped rope. Lee jeans were the shit then.